


Unforgettable

by auroraleighs



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, older!Damian Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroraleighs/pseuds/auroraleighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian is having a terrible Valentine's Day. </p>
<p>A Damian/Stephanie fluff one-shot fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgettable

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on ff.net) for Valentine's Day 2012 under my old user name (littlelotte26). Decided it was time to make the switch to Ao3, so here I am! Hope you enjoy!

This was definitely the last place he wanted to be on Valentine’s Day. He could think of hundreds of things – mostly involving general distribution of justice and face-smashing – better than sitting in HappyBurger. As luck would have it, today was not his day.

He had been banned for no reason at all from patrol with his father, and then replaced (his blood pressure spiked at the thought) by Drake for the night. He had sulked for an hour in his room, drawing the various ways in which he might kill Drake and dispose of the body, until he knew his father and Drake were out on patrol and had snuck down to the Cave. To his dismay, both his uniform and his motorcycle were, according to Pennyworth, “in for repairs” and “wouldn’t he rather prefer to have dinner now?” Furious at his father (who had certainly planned this) and keen to avoid Grayson’s merciless questioning as to why he wasn’t at the school’s Valentine’s Day dance, something he did not want to talk about, especially not with Grayson, Damian had fled Wayne Manor in his new car.

The black Bugatti had been a Christmas gift from his mother, who was apparently trying to mend the breach (undoubtedly she was trying to bring him back to the League or her cloning program had hit a snag), but his father had insisted that Fox examine every inch of the car before Damian drove it, just in case his mother had other nefarious plans. Finally, after two months of waiting, Damian could break in his new car without Grayson, Pennyworth, or his father hovering.

He had set out driving in the opposite direction of the school, consciously avoiding it. Damian had learned to drive a manual transmission car at the tender age of eight. Of course, he hadn’t just learned how to drive – he had learned other valuable skills, like how to hot-wire an engine or how to evade police in a chase. The engine in this car was turbocharged and purred like a jet-liner’s engine as Damian drove through Gotham.

Then it had started to snow. And he had kept driving. And despite the warmth of his massaging seat warmers, Damian found himself still cold. And hungry. Ever since he had hit sixteen, Damian realized he was always hungry.

And that’s how he ended up at HappyBurger. HappyBurger was clearly one of those restaurants that suffered in the cold season. It had been built in Gotham’s gaudy 1950s as a drive-in hamburger joint, complete with still-functioning jukebox and hideously large, brilliantly lit-up sign outside, depicting a hamburger with freakishly huge eyes and an almost sinister smile.

Today, HappyBurger was mostly deserted, save a family getting up to leave and an elderly couple in the front window booth. The jukebox was cranking out the classic tunes from the 50s and 60s, right now Ella Fitzgerald’s “Dream a Little Dream of Me” was drowning out the conversations from the other booths.

Following the empathically cheery sign at the front that said “Happily Seat Yourself!!”, Damian had taken the corner booth, far away from the windows and with a clear view of the front door. A lifetime of training had made his habits just as paranoid as his father’s. Not that he was expecting trouble out here in suburbia. Especially not with the snow. The most likely trouble here would be one of the patrons suffering from a heart attack – whatever this monstrosity of a _Double Happiness Bacon Burger_ was it sounded like it contained an unhealthy level of cholesterol. And strangely enough, nothing had ever sounded so quite delicious.

Damian cursed puberty and its ability to deteriorate his will. For two awkward years between 13 and 15, Damian had wondered if his wish not to grow had been answered by the universe. He had enjoyed his height from 10 to 12 – so perfect for distracting his enemies – but at 15, being short was painfully awkward. He had grown a little after 12, but not much. And it had nearly driven him into a full-blown panic attack. After spending one miserable day glaring into his coffee cup, cursing it, and wondering how he could succeed in the future as a Batman that was merely Drake-sized, he had awoken the next morning to find he had shot up several inches. For months after that fateful day, he spent miserable days cursing the excruciating shin splits that kept him awake in the night.

Now at 16, he was still grappling with the awkward newness of his body. Along with the feeling that he was somehow detached from his new, long limbs, came the overwhelming, bottomless hunger. And he also discovered that he had developed a new superpower: he was now keenly aware of the presence of women.

Case in point: the waitress he had been not-so-surreptitiously looking at over the top of the menu. She was across the room, her back to him, leaning over the table to help the elderly couple. He had first noticed her when he had heard her high heels – completely impractical for carrying giant tray, let alone for walking the snow, but it was certainly part of the uniform – and now, he felt a vague sensation of desperation to see her face.

He drank her in from the fire-engine red heels up her impossibly long, fit legs to her pert, heart-shaped ass that he could make out beneath the adorably pleated red skirt she was wearing. Something about her was vaguely familiar and comforting…Or perhaps he had just fantasized about these qualities before. There was a pink bow at the small of her back; she was probably wearing an apron, another degrading uniform requirement. It drew his attention back to her perfect ass again.

_Shit._

He was turning into Grayson, he realized, or worse, his father - He had been staring at her for a solid two minutes. But that knot of desire tightening below his bellybutton told him he had to see her face. The elderly couple she was helping get ready to leave were smiling and laughing-

Then the jukebox stuttered as the machine flipped to the next song. And he heard it. Then and there in those empty five seconds. Her laugh.

_Double Shit._

Now he knew why those long legs had seemed so familiar. His mind recoiled from her and he desperately stared at his menu as if it would tell him what to do. _Just keeping looking at the menu_ , the rational part of him said, _and then you can escape when she’s not looking. Maybe she hadn’t seen him come in._

_It might not be Her_ , the other part of him, this new sly part of him, said. _Maybe you should look again._ He waffled – the rational part of him was now confused – one more look couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Damian?”

Oh no.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked up. There she was, across the table from him. One hand on her hip, the other holding up a tray filled with two or three empty milkshake glasses and a few dirty plates. Unmistakably her. Her long blonde hair was done-up somehow (he couldn’t figure it out) but her long bangs were held back by a bright pink headband made up of little hearts. The ends of her hair brushed over the tacky rickrack collar of her uniform. The apron she wore was indeed pink, undoubtedly coordinated for Valentine’s Day, since the top of the apron was heart shaped. The top of the heart fell right at her breasts.

“Stephanie?” He managed squeaked out. God, he had squeaked. Stephanie Brown set the tray down on his table, her cherry red lips twitched up into her trademark smile. It was brilliant and absurdly perfect. He waited for it – the inventible string of rapid-fire questions, the terrible puns…

“You look like you need some happiness,” she said brightly. He stared suspiciously at her, unsure if she was luring him into a euphemism trap. Stephanie sighed and jabbed at the _Double Happiness Bacon Burger_ on the menu.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he snapped.

“What, you don’t trust me?” She almost sounded offended.

“No.”

“Speaking in my official capacity as a waitress, I can assure it’s tasty-”

“If you want a heart attack-” he started.

“Of scrumptious deliciousness,” she said each word carefully, savoring the syllables. For two long seconds, they glared at each other. Just as he was about to open his mouth and say something, his stomach rumbled incriminatingly. She smugly folded her arms over chest.

“Fine,” he bit off, burrowing into the booth. He couldn’t look at her.

“Good life choices, D,” Stephanie said, gathering up her tray. She disappeared behind the row of booths to his left. He sighed, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back into the red pleather booth. How did she always manage to show up on days like these?

Unbidden, the image of Stephanie in her waitress uniform blossomed into his mind’s eye. He shook his head, desperately trying to erase it from his mind. The image lingered.

“It will be another twenty minutes, Boy Wonder,” Stephanie’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Perfection takes a while.”

He started, his face turning red. She held out one of two identical strawberry milkshakes, each covered in whipped cream, tiny chocolate hearts, and one perfectly placed maraschino cherry. He took it from her, bewildered.

“Luckily for you,” she continued, sitting down across from him, “I’m on break. And I get one free shake per day. Peace offering.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He took a cautious sip. It was wonderfully sweet. He stabbed the straw experimentally through the whipped cream, waiting for her to talk. She would, he knew, because she wasn’t the type to sit in silence. Like Grayson, something about silence told her to fill it.

“So,” she drawled, assuming a casual air even though they both knew she was fishing, “what brings you to the happiest place on earth?” Stephanie gestured to all the other empty booths around them. “Other than Disney, I mean.”

“I couldn’t stay at home,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

“Ah,” she said sagely. Stephanie understood as well as he did the dynamics at the Wayne Manor. She sipped her milkshake and Damian suddenly noticed that she was wearing makeup. He realized that he had never seen her for long or so up-close in civilian clothing. He never saw her makeup, if she wore any, when they were on patrol. The black cat’s eye effect she was wearing drew attention to how blue her eyes were. She was - he grudgingly had to admit - almost pretty.

The jukebox flipped to Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore”, and she hummed along as she sipped on her milkshake.

“No terrible school dance tonight?” she asked, looking up at him from under her lashes. Something warm inside him clenched up. She was actually very pretty, he was dimly beginning to realize. “In my experience,” she said as she popped the tiny maraschino cherry into her mouth (something in his stomach leapt again), “most high schools have some sort of terribly themed dance around this time of year.”

He didn’t say anything. She continued, “Like ‘Hawaiian Breeze’ or ‘Jurassic Park’ or…ooh, our Prom theme, okay I didn’t go, but still, it was totally lame – ‘Under the Sea’.” She shuddered dramatically.

“New York, New York.” It had popped out his mouth before he realized it.

“Ugh, terrible,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “So why aren’t you there? You know, awkwardly slow dancing with some girl?”

“No one asked me,” he confessed. Someone had to know; it might as well be her. Her head popped up from her milkshake.

“Usually the guy asks the girl,” she said slowly, stabbing her straw into the remains of her milkshake.

“I’m not an idiot, Brown,” he growled, regretting telling her, “It was one of those-”

“Turn-about dances?” He nodded.

“Did you want to go?” she asked carefully. He shrugged and stared into his milkshake as if it could offer the answer. The silence stretched across the table. She sighed and grabbed his hand from across the table.

“Come on, kid,” she pulled him out the booth, towards the jukebox. Something clicked in his brain.

“No,” he said weakly, watching Stephanie fish a quarter from the pocket in her apron.

“Oh yes,” she said, wickedly. “I am here working, all alone on the most sickeningly romantic day of the year, and you should be slow dancing somewhere. So come over here and dance with me.” She paused. “You do know how to dance, don’t you?”

“ ‘Course I do,” he said defensively.

“Good,” Stephanie said bracingly. She pressed play on the jukebox; the sounds of “Unforgettable” floated into the empty diner. Stephanie looked meaningfully at him. He shifted his feet awkwardly, unsure how to close the distance between them.

“Really?” she said exasperatedly, stepping up to him. She forcibly grabbed his right hand and put it on her waist. He swallowed convulsively and took her hand in his. A lifetime of training with killers in the League of Assassins – child’s play. Fights with Gotham’s scum, the Mob, murderous psychopaths, Killer Croc, the Joker, even the creepy-as-hell Professor Pyg – he was still cool, despite the terror. Dancing with Stephanie Brown, Batgirl…that was something else entirely.

He willed himself not to have a panic attack and gently started to move his feet. Damian sincerely hoped she couldn’t feel how his hand was shaking on her waist (he tangled his fingers into that apron bow on the small of her back for support) or that the hand holding hers was sweaty.

“Not so bad, huh?” she said quietly after a minute of their quiet rotation. He shook his head and gently flicked his wrist out, letting her to that slow twirly-thing that girls liked to do. Her red skirt flared out gently as she turned. She beamed at him when she spun back into his arms. _Up_ at him, he realized. Even with her heels she was still a little shorter than he was. It was strange, having her shorter than him. She seemed smaller and more breakable; he pulled her a little closer, feeling strangely protective.

“That's why, darling,” Nat King Cole crooned, “it's incredible/That someone so unforgettable/Thinks that I am/Unforgettable, too.” Dimly in his mind an idea began to form – he wondered if she would slap him if he tried to kiss her. The rational part of him was screaming no; that other part of him was quietly, yet insistently, whispering _do it._

_What was stopping him?_ He thought. She was Batgirl and he was Robin. It was tradition. It was so right. And she looked so pretty just now. Peaceful. Happy.

She caught him looking at her. She blushed a little, but didn’t look away.

_I am so going to regret this,_ he thought to himself and tipped his head towards her.

“Double Happiness Bacon Burger!” The shout came from the kitchen.

“Hungry, D?” she said, quickly, pulling away from him. He realized how close their faces had been together. He felt suddenly embarrassed. Stephanie looked equally sheepish – why? She briskly headed back to kitchen, rubbing her hands down her apron.

He slunk back to his booth. She brought him his burger – a two story monstrosity of ground beef patty, bacon, and every conceivable topping – and a side of fries. He looked up at her questioningly.

“I have to clean up,” she said lamely, gesturing to the mostly clean diner behind her. And she skittered off quickly to the back room.

The burger was delicious. If happiness had a taste, it might have been the Double Happiness Bacon Burger. It was greasy and utterly unhealthy and he knew he would pay for it in training tomorrow. But it didn’t really matter. Over his bites, he watched her clean up the rest of the tables, straightening chairs and menus for the night crew. Minutes passed and his burger disappeared. Then the fries did too.

“Are you all set?” His looked up. A brunette waitress was standing there, same uniform, but not the same smile. He nodded and paid.

“Stephanie’s shift is up,” said the brunette – Katie, the nametag said – listlessly. “She’s getting her coat.” Katie paused, pursing her lips. “I don’t know why she didn’t ask you herself, but, she wanted to know if you could drive her home. The busboy, Nick, brought her here since her car died, but he has to work a double shift, so…” She trailed off meaningfully and gathered up his dirty dishes.

“Oh,” he said stupidly. “Tell her...I can take her.”

Minutes later, he was helping her across the frozen wasteland of the parking lot.

“These damn shoes,” she muttered angrily, as she reached for his arm again when her heels skittered on the ice. He tried not to laugh.

“Not a word, Damian,” she growled as she slipped a second time, grabbing onto him, “If you value your life.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, grinning.

“And I gave you my free shake,” she muttered.

The car ride to Stephanie’s house was quiet. He could tell she wanted to play with the radio, but she resisted. Instead, she snuggled into the massaging seat warmers.

“Do you think if I asked Bruce he would put these in the Compact?” she asked, sighing with pleasure.

“Mmm, probably not.”

“I guess I’ll have to go driving with you more often,” she said, looking out the window.

“I’d like that,” he said softly, glancing quickly at her. She smiled at him.

“Umm…This is me-” She gestured to a house with the front porch light still on. He parked and killed the engine. She unbuckled her seatbelt in silence. They looked at each other awkwardly.

Then – faster than he had expected – she leaned over and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, D,” she said breathlessly.

“You too, Steph,” he said, clenching his hands on the steering wheel. He was grateful that the car was dark – his face was on fire. She reached for the door handle.

“Stephanie?” he asked suddenly. She turned back to him. “Are we patrolling together tomorrow?”

“Only if I can take point,” she said, getting out of the car.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “Like I’d let you take point.”

“Goodnight, Damian,” she said sweetly, shutting the car door, cutting off any more of his comments on her crime-fighting abilities.

He watched her slip-slide her way up the front stairs to her porch. Damian started the car again. She got her key in the lock, and turned to wave at him, her smile that brilliant Batgirl smile he knew so well.

As he drove away, he realized that maybe his luck was improving.


End file.
